


He's in Your Hands

by its_mike_kapufty



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [35]
Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, potential self-harm warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29551704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_mike_kapufty/pseuds/its_mike_kapufty
Summary: Rhett's habit of digging his nail into his thumb is long-formed, the shape left behind unnoticed by everyone... until now.
Relationships: Rhett McLaughlin/Link Neal
Series: Tumblr Ficlets [35]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2170695
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	He's in Your Hands

Rhett has a mark on the pad of his thumb.

It wasn’t always there, nor did it occur out of the blue one day like most bodily quirks e.g. a mishandled pan or distrustful creature. No, the slivered indentation nestled in the meat of his right thumb—his dominant hand, because that one is stronger—is the result of erosion.

He can’t pinpoint when he started doing it yet knows crystal clear the moment it began, which is a paradox he briefly acknowledges so long as it doesn’t harass him too much when he lays down to sleep. It was in late middle school. Link had smiled at him from across the table with boyish chipmunk cheeks full of peanut butter sandwich and lips that read cherished both ways and Rhett’s chest had fizzed hot and swelled. Alarming. He’d only felt that once or twice before, and it had (obviously) not been the result of a sloppy grin from his feather-haired friend.

And so without giving it too much thought, Rhett had dug his pointer nail into his thumb. Not hard, but enough to act like that was where his “off” button was located, a place to reject the bubbling and warmth.

It worked well.

At first.

The other incidents are littered throughout his memory, pieces of Link that chipped off and embedded into Rhett as if he couldn’t be bothered to clean up his shattered Clearly Canadian in the highschool parking lot: the way he ran his fingers tactile along his backpack straps while idled and thoughtful in the hall; that time the McLaughlin’s phone went off past midnight and Di had begrudgingly woken him with the words, “Sweetheart, it’s Link… sounds like he really needs you;” and even through and past college, when in their van on a 2,500 mile drive, Rhett could glance over and see his partner slumped over in his seat, and almost like a Magic Eye he could blur his vision for a split second and trick himself into thinking that sleepy head was comfortably respited on his shoulder. Each of these earned an aching crescent in his skin, and they’re the ones that stick out despite Rhett knowing (deep down) that for the mark to exist permanently, it must have been daily. Perhaps hourly, on bad days. When did he marry the idea of tickled blue eyes to pain in his hand?

Link notices it, of course. It was bound to happen; they know most every inch of one another’s skin like an atlas of the roads between their childhood houses, and the “new” speed bump on Rhett’s thumb screws up Link’s face real good.

“Whoa—what’s that?” he muses over their desks, not waiting for a response before flipping Rhett’s hand skyward over the scattered manuscripts and pointing to it. “What the heck? What happened here, man?”

Instantly Rhett wants to deepen the crease in question—a reflex so forgivable and refined that it takes actual effort not to do it. Damn the tingling sensation that breathes like clockwork without.

“It’s…” Rhett runs his free hand over his beard and chuckles, a valve of pressure released. “It’s just something I do when I’m nervous, I guess.”

Link’s eyes flicker up towards Rhett’s, quizzical, and he feels pressed to elaborate.

“Yeah. Whenever I’m anxious, I just…”

Being given the freedom to demonstrate in front of Link doesn’t feel as good as it usually does. The relief isn’t as good, perhaps ‘cause it ain’t secret. He’s never watched himself do it before either, and his own reaction is mirrored on Link when he digs his fingernail into his thumb so hard that both turn a tight yellow-white.

“Hey—stop that.” Link’s tone quivers just barely, the type of waver reserved for mothers and true concern, and he reaches out and separates Rhett’s fingers without protest.

The itching sensation to do it again grows tenfold with Link’s deft fingers on his own. Rhett presses his free hand to his mouth and glances up with a hot neck. Link’s bewildered, watching him with lips lightly parted and eyebrows quirked.

“Don't—don’t do th—I mean,” he shakes his head. “How long you been doin’ that? Are you… are you anxious a lot?”

His face when he says it.

Rhett’s finger twitches.

“I guess,” he croaks through his hand.

“Well… don’t, man. Freaks me out,” Link mumbles, and Rhett is still very aware that Link is holding him like a baby bird. “You gotta know that ain’t good.”

“I can’t help it.” That much is true. “Been doin’ it so long, it’s habit.”

Link watches him with hard eyes, scanning his face for further explanation or reassurance, but Rhett has nothing more to say. The moments that pass while Link puzzles out how to respond to this are elongated by the contact, still there’s contact, and Rhett is sure his chest might sear open by the time Link speaks again.

“It’s a hand thing. Right?”

Pursing his mouth, Rhett glances out their office window. “Yep.”

“Okay…” Link runs his tongue along his bottom lip and studies their locked fingers on the table. “Okay. How 'bout next time you wanna do that, you hold my hand instead?”

That burning isn’t going to go away. Not for the next day or two, at least. It’s already spreading up Rhett’s throat and into his cheeks, and the goosebumps on his thighs tell him it’s headed to his toes as well.

He coughs deep. “That won’t work. It happens a lot. Like, a lot a lot.”

“I’m fine with that,” Link answers easily, and like they’d done it a million times before—like the hand-holding More had only been weird because they’d been filmed—Link entwines their grips until their palms meet, grasped together over their workload and spotlighted by sunshine.

Rhett stares down at it.

“Hmm.”

Link picks up his pen, ready to get back to work. “Does this help?”

Weirdly? It does.

The compulsion to cause pain withers away in a gradual creep from Rhett’s mind, eking out and leaving the space between his joints and the sharpness at the base of his brain with an oddly relaxed contentment.

“Yeah,” he whispers without meaning to. “Somehow… yeah.”

Link’s face—just for one glorious breath—beams, and he gives a squeeze that can only mean something good, and Rhett can’t imagine bypassing those fingers for any reason anymore, let alone denial of this.


End file.
